Why The Barn Owl?
by JTheGoblinKing
Summary: This is why Jareth chooses the form of a barn owl. Small Harry Potter content. Harry Potter belongs to J. K. Rowling. Labyrinth belongs to the Henson company.


Disclaimer: The following is an old Labyrinth fan fiction I wrote for a Labyrinth fan fiction group years ago. Labyrinth belongs to Henson. Most, if not all, of the Labyrinth fan fiction I am going to post here is at least ten years old, if not older. You will see the original dates they were written placed into these documents. These fan fictions predate the canon of Return to Labyrinth.

Yes, I AM still alive. I've just been on the run from The Goblin King for several years. ;-) I know many of you are cringing in terror at seeing me back here again, but I decided to just remind you that I do exist. Anyway, here's a short fiction I toyed with when word got to me of all the Labyrinth / Harry Potter Cross overs.

This is my first Labyrinth fan fiction in roughly four years.

Disclaimer: I do not own Jareth nor the characters or places described within this fiction. Azkaban and the Ministry of Magick are copyright

J. K. Rowling, Labyrinth is owned by The Henson corporation.

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Why the Barn owl?

'You must pick a form and learn how to shift into it at will.' His father had told him countless times in his magical eductions in The Castle beyond The Goblin City. But young Jareth hadn't cared much for all that, instead he'd sigh and stare out at The Labyrinth, wishing it was some place else, wishing with all his heart that he was on Earth and human, and he wouldn't have to worry about such a dreary world and all of it's mysteries.

His father was dead now, had been for several months. And in that time Jareth had learned how to transform small children into goblins as was his 'duty' when a child would be wished away.

Jareth was a murderer and he took pleasure in death and destruction. He was a monster as surely as his goblins were monsters. He had found a horrible pleasure in watching the terror fill the eyes of those lost in his Labyrinth when they heard the chiming of the thirteenth hour. How many went mad or died in that intricate and complex maze?

And how many times had he watched the plump baby face, with eyes shut as the child gave off a terrible din that would soon fade off in to oblivion forever, as he would change it. As the child would cry as if the baby could deny what he would to do with it. He would watch with cold amusement as the sweet, innocent, and fearful face, that very nearly trusted him, for his coddling it, with his deceptive, seeming kindness, as it turned in to a hideous, grotesque, and deformed goblin's face. And the tiny hands that reached up to be held turned in to, hooked, groping and scratching claws. And the cries turned in to a gurgled growling. A small part of Jareth had been repulsed that he could possibly allow himself, even if no one was there to stop him, to do such a thing. He had rationalized it. He told himself that he hadn't the choice, that it was his duty. But there was always a choice, no matter the situation.

He could have fled. He could have denied it. He could have tried to destroy himself. But he would not. And there was that horribly sadistic rush of excitement and satisfaction of power, that it was he that had destroyed this child. That it was he that inflicted such suffering on humans. That he could and would do this, time and time again! And that he did it because he could do it! He liked to do it. And he liked to do it for the simple reason that he had the power, that he COULD do it! They would know his power before he would steal away their human minds, their intellects dulled, their memories wiped clean of their mortal lives, replaced by the terribly simplistic goblin mind. He was disgusted and enchanted at once. he had been his own prisoner. Jealous of the humanity that he, himself, did not possess.

And then they had come in their dark robes and wands raised. How long did the young king, Jareth, think he could get away with it? There was nothing he could do. He couldn't do a damn thing with his crystal orbs with ten wizards standing around him, wands raised like assault rifles.

In chains, Jareth's wrists were manacled in front of him in iron cuffs held together by heavy iron chains- his magick useless in such restraints. The larger, muscular wizards on either side of him, held his shoulders. He stared up at the Ministry officials with contempt as they passed judgment.

Three thousand years in Azkaban prison and that was a light sentence as far as they were concerned, considering his crimes. They felt he was misguided and blamed his father for the things he had done, one of those sympathetic lots of individuals who blamed society instead of the person. Three thousand years in Azkaban prison!

Jareth had protested. 'No! No, you can't do this to me! NO!'

He had put up a fierce struggle, as much of one as he could without the aide of

his magick.

For weeks he languished in his cell. He was pretty well behaved for 'The Goblin King.' Far better behaved than what they had expected from such a known brat. And the whole Wizarding world was interested, in morbid fascination, how a royal would handle life in Azkaban. No one was above the 'justice' system. Of course Jareth didn't view it as justice. He viewed it as a farce, a way the wizards could feel better about themselves and pretend they had some social order, by scaring citizens into behaving by making examples out of others.

The Dementors had little use in sucking away his hope. He didn't seem to possess much of it. But Jareth was willful and he did have hope and dreams of his own that no one could ever know about, hidden deep inside of himself,

and ache for a life far beyond that which he was living.

Eventually the Ministry agreed to let him send letters to friends in other places, which required the gift of an owl. But he had to earn it first because this was quite a favour for someone incarcerated in Azkaban.

Thirteen long years scrubbing the floors of the dark and dreary halls of Azkaban was meant to humble him, reduce him into something submissive and meek. And all his beautiful and flamboyant clothes were taken away and he was given the horribly ugly and conformed uniform that made him feel miserably mundane.

But his feigned quiet passivity earned him the owl and every day he wrote his letters with a quill pen, letters to officials pleading for a pardon, letters to women he wanted to seduce should he escape, letters to the few servants in his castle who could read, letters to companies that made hair care products...

He got many replies, and many declines to his pleas for a pardon- and every day he took the barn owl out of it's cage and let it out the narrow window of his tiny room, which was just a stone space with a single straw mat. And this became a routine for thirteen more years. The ageless Goblin King following it with precise punctuality.

Several wizards observed it that fateful Thursday when the barn owl flew from the window with many a flirt and flutter. But something in the air just didn't feel quite right...

When the Dementors went to the cell to check on the shell that had been The Goblin King they found nothing, no one, he was gone! Nothing was in the cell but under a pile of straw lay a barn owl with it's neck broken...

The end.


End file.
